


A Big Strong Boy

by alltoseek



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Backstory, Gen, Kayfabe Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 13:47:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9327410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alltoseek/pseuds/alltoseek
Summary: He never really managed to explain how he’d gotten from Mexico to Canada





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mithen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithen/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Unbroken English](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8974621) by [Moonsault](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonsault/pseuds/Moonsault), [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account). 



Gene Rico was a little slow, a little stupid. He never learned to speak much. But that was OK, you didn't need much in the way of verbal skills to work the fields. 

He was a sweet kid, the sweetest kid; everyone said so, from México all the way up the West Coast through California, Oregon, Washington, into Canada even. Wherever there was work, that was where they went, mamá, papá, and Gene Rico. Gene was his American name, his mamá explained, and Rico his Mexicano name. That's if anyone would listen. Gene Rico couldn't say his own name very clearly, so he was called Enrique, Enrico, Rico, Gene (Hen-ay); sometimes even General -- el General, el Generalito, Generito. The little general, because he got everyone working hard, not through orders but through leadership. His own happy, cheerful, hard-working example.

Because even if he couldn't talk much, even if he seemed a little slow sometimes, a little stupid, he was growing into a big strong boy. His mamá was so happy to see him grow so strong. She had been worried - so so worried. There had been many pregnancies, you see, but not many babies - that's what happened when you worked in and among pesticides all day long, all your life. It was OK, she told herself each time, wasn't like they could provide for many children anyway. So even when little Gene Rico was born perfectly healthy, she worried and worried - would he live to see his first week, his first month, his first year? He did, and he did, and he did, and many more years, and she learned to stop worrying. All her patience, all her acceptance, all her prayers had been answered with her wonderful, cheerful, big strong beautiful boy Gene Rico.

When Gene Rico thought to himself, he didn't think in words. He thought in images, in feelings, in ideas that would slip and slide away. That was OK, he didn't need to think about much anyway, there was always so much to do, to see, to enjoy right in front of him. Until

Until the accident.

He wished the image of the accident would slide away, would slip right out of his mind and memory forever. Except that that image was the last he had of his mamá and papá. Except he didn't want that image to be the last of his mamá and papá, he wanted to remember the better times, when they were happier, smiling, working, eating their meals together, singing to him. Not the accident. But the accident was the last. The last he had. And it wouldn't go away, anyway.

The accident happened in Canada. Not that Gene Rico understood Canada, or that it was much different from anywhere else. He didn't understand _then_. The seasons changed, the crops changed, the fields changed, and Gene Rico and his family the other workers moved through them. He didn't understand how a place changed even as you stayed still in it. Not yet.

Some very nice people came to see Gene Rico after the accident. They weren't workers, and they weren't the employers either. They dressed nice, and smelled nice, and had smooth clean skin and white teeth, and looked very out of place. But they smiled kindly at him, and they spoke nicely, although he couldn't understand anything they said. They took him in their car and drove him away from the fields and to a house - a real solid house, on a street full of real solid houses, and no fields. Inside the house was a family, a mamá and a papá and a lot of boys, mostly around Gene Rico's own age, a few years younger or a few years older. Some were Americano and some were Mexicano and some were something else and some were a mix.

It was a long time before Gene Rico realized that he lived in this house now, that he was part of this family now. He kept expecting to move on, when it was time. 

They called him Generico here (hen-ay-Ree-co). After the accident, the nice people had tried to learn his name, but Gene Rico couldn't explain himself, couldn't make himself understood, and the other workers had just as much trouble. Names hadn't worried them much, they all knew who he was. They called him Rico, or Enrico, or el Jefe, or Generito, and they all knew who they meant. Now he was Generico, which was fine. This was such a different life, he might as well have a different name. It was close enough, anyway. They all knew who they meant.

Generico didn't say much. The lingo he'd spoken with his mamá and papá and the other workers wasn't spoken here. But that was OK, he was used to not saying much. So he listened, and he watched. He wanted to do, too, but he didn't understand the work here. It was very different. Some things were the same, a few, but most was very very different.

It had been a long time since Generico had been considered a little slow, a little stupid. He'd been a good worker, big and strong and able for his age. For any age, almost. Now he was very slow, very stupid. Not as stupid as the other boys took him for, though. He didn't understand the exact words that they called him, but he understood the tone all right. He understood the language their bodies spoke too. 

They spoke it to each other, too, not just to him. The tone, and the bodies. Generico knew play-fighting, the rough-and-tumble between boys, and men also; he'd grown up with that. But these boys were fighting for real, even if the parents didn't let anyone get hurt too badly.

It took a while, but Generico realized that these boys were a lot like him, even though they were all so very different. They'd all had a life before, and had to leave that life, and come live this one. And none of them understood very well how to live this life here, even if they could speak the lingo, and do the work. So they were all scared, and hurting, and angry. All of them together, and nowhere to put all that scared angry hurt except on each other.

Well. Generico might not understand the work or the speech, but he was still big and strong. And able, whether they were play-fighting or real-fighting. So he didn't get hurt much, and he tried not to let his new brothers get hurt much either, although that was much harder.

He remembered what else he used to be – cheerful and happy. He smiled at everyone, and everyone smiled back. He laughed, and everyone laughed with him. But remembering brought up the image

The image

The image he couldn't forget he needed to forget but it was the last but he wanted the other images the happy ones not the last one the last image

The parents in this house smiled at him, and he smiled back. If he laughed, they laughed with him. Each time, it brought up a little of the hurt from before, but each time it also soothed a little of the hurt.

Sometimes the other boys smiled and laughed with him too, but often they smirked and jeered instead. They thought they were so much better than him – they needed to be so much better than him. Those images filled his head now – the jeering, the sneering.

Generico was still big and strong and able (sometimes) but he found it so hard to be happy and cheerful. Even to pretend. Generico was a better name for him here. He wasn't el Jefe or Generalito here. Generico was all he was.

He still tried though. He'd got big and strong and able and cheerful through trying and trying and he wouldn't stop now. One day two of the boys were fighting – real fighting – and Generico got between them and stopped them. One of the boys was fine, glad to stop, he moved back. The other was still so angry, so scared and hurting.

He picked up a knife.

He had a knife and he came straight at Generico

At Generico's face. At his

his eyes

He slashed at Generico's eyes and nose and cheeks and forehead. Generico didn't block his face with his hands, he grabbed for the other boy's arm instead, to stop the knife. The third boy – the one who was OK to stop fighting – he yelled for the parents and he grabbed for the knife boy too. 

The doctors said there was no damage done to his eyes, his vision. His cheekbones and forehead and nose had all done their job, protected those vulnerable eyes. But there were many slashes, that needed stitches, that needed bandaging.

When he got home, some of the boys laughed at him, but they weren't mean laughs. “You look like you're wearing a mask,” they said. “Yeah, you look like some kind of weird superhero,” they said, laughing. “Ohhh, it's the White Ghost!” they called, laughing. But they weren't mean, they were happy, relieved. Generico would be OK. They slapped his back, “Hey, White Ghost!” they called. “What's your superpower?”

Generico thought about it. He wasn't white, and he wasn't a ghost. The image

No. No ghosts. And not white. 

He got a pillowcase. Not a white one, one with superhero colors. He trimmed it down, cut out eyeholes, placed it over his bandaged face, and tied it up snug.

The boys were laughing again – the happy laugh, the cheerful fun laughs – but they weren't calling him the White Ghost anymore. “What superhero are you?”

“Generico,” he answered. “El Generico.”

The boys paused, puzzled, then rolled with it. “El Generico!” they cheered. “El Generico!”

The bandages came off, the scarring not even that bad. They'd got a plastic surgeon to do the stitching, and he'd done a good job. He told Generico, “Keep your face out of the sun for the next six months to a year. Wear a hat, with a brim. You'll have next to no scarring. No one will see.”

The bandages came off, but the mask stayed on. The parents were a bit concerned, but if a hat was good, the mask would be better, right?

Generico like being El Generico. The mask stayed on.

The seasons had changed, the trees and plants had changed, the weather had changed, all while Generico had stayed still. Generico had changed too. It was time to move on. The parents wanted him to stay, and he could have, but he felt the pull. It was time to move on.

Generico left. The mask stayed on.


End file.
